Two Novels: The Intended and Flame

Chapter 8

8

Malcolm fell. As if from the sky, he dropped like a stone. He could see the heather below, rushing up at him, each purple flower so clear, so distinct. The onrushing air tore at his face, his hair, peeling back his lips, forcing his eyes open. Fear possessed him, but try as he might, he could not close his eyes. He moved his hands to cover his face, but spread his arms with shock, realizing the skin from his fingers to his elbow was ablaze with crimson flame. Malcolm continued to fall. The heather-covered earth opened to receive him.

The Highlander jerked into consciousness with a start. The ground beneath him smelled not of heather, but of old, befouled straw. A noise—the sound of a men speaking—could be heard from a distance not far off. The pounding in his ears made the words unintelligible, but the accent was clear. English. Closing in. They were now getting closer to where he lay. Malcolm tried to roll to his side, to rise to his feet. His body would not respond. He set his teeth, willing himself up. Nothing. Move, damn you, he cursed, trying to reach the short sword strapped at his side. His broken body defied him still. He couldn’t lift his head, his arm—not even the weight of a finger. The voices were now upon him. Malcolm lay still, doomed, helpless, waiting for the final death stroke to fall. Let it come, he thought.

But the stroke never fell.

His face was hot—burning—and yet his chest and arms were as cold as the grave. He had no legs, so far as he could tell, but he could feel the droplets of sweat scorching a trail down his temples, across his neck. A tightness in his throat—a dryness that threatened to c***k open his gullet—consumed him.

He tried to remember where he was. A swirl of pictures, sounds, whirled past his eyes with dizzying speed. A ship. A French ship. And a wolfish attack by the English ships. They were outnumbered, outgunned. And then there had been a searing heat plunging through his ribs, piercing the flesh. The point of the blade coming though his chest. The flash of white. The world out of focus giving way to the aching, yellow light and the wriggling red worm that squirmed across his eyes. And then the rush of wind, the blackness, and then nothing. That’s what he remembered.

A spot cleared far back in Malcolm’s brain. The vision of his master, the venerable Erasmus, in his study. The bustling streets of Freiburg in Breisgau, shut out by the walls of the university, by the crackle of the fire in the small hearth. He had spent many days at the master’s side. Come, Malcolm Scotus, the master used to say, the corners of his shrewd gray eyes crinkling with only the hint of a smile. Let us argue once again the De Devisione Naturae, but this time, my boy, we argue in Greek.

But Erasmus was dead now. And that had been the reason he’d given to those who asked about his presence aboard that ship. He’d simply said that he was going to Rotterdam to pick up a small legacy the great scholar had left him a few years earlier as a part of his will. He’d never had time to go before now. He still didn’t have time. But a sense of nostalgia, Malcolm had told one fellow traveler, for the peace he had once felt as a student, had drawn him on this trip.

So in the role of a wayfarer rather than laird and warrior chief, he had boarded the French ship. So little had he suspected an attack. Or suspected finding her so soon. Suddenly, Malcolm’s head cleared of everything but Jaime.

It hadn’t been a dream. She had been there, at the prison. He remembered clearly the cold stone and the stinking air and the gruesome feel of drifting in and out of consciousness. And then, as refreshing as droplets of rain could be against the burning walls of hell, he’d heard the rustle of skirts of a woman and had looked up to see her face. In truth, he had come on this journey in search of peace—in search of her—and here she was, appearing before his eyes like some angel emerging from the mist. His spirit had soared with joy at seeing her, when now he knew he should have turned his face and welcomed death. The anger once again boiled within him.

Traitorous, double-crossing Jaime. He clenched his jaws together as that painful realization stabbed at his heart anew.

There was a yawn and the stirring of straw an arm’s length or so from where he lay as the voices—their tone so soft, so unwarlike—could be heard just outside a door. Beyond the voices, the Highlander could make out the morning sounds of horses and the men who worked with them. A kick to the shoulder from whoever was with him made Malcolm groan involuntarily, though the sound seemed to come from outside of himself.

“Filthy Scot,” a young man muttered. “If it warn’t fer ye, that Welsh boneleech wouldna...” The door creaked and a rush of fresh air swept in.

“So, Master Graves. Ye finally come down,” the young man grumbled, more than a hint of resentment in his tone. “I’ll be getting to my duties, if ye two masters are done with me.”

“You’ll wait.”

Malcolm kept his eyes shut. He hardly breathed as a cool hand felt his brow.

“Did he do anything during the night? Did he come awake? Did he fret with his wounds?” With a click of his tongue, the man removed his hand from Malcolm’s face and began probing at various points of his aching frame.

“He’s been a-lying there like a stone, sir. If it warn’t fer once in a while a-groaning as he did...I’d a-thought him done fer.”

“The man is burning up with fever. During the night, did you give him any of the medicine I left?”

“Nay, sir. It...it seemed a bit of a waste.”

“A waste?” Graves exploded. “You, a stable hand, decided...By the Virgin, man! If you had a sick stallion in your care, wouldn’t you do right by the creature?”

There was a pause, and then the stable man answered, clearly surprised and hostile at the physician’s remarks. “He’s a filthy Scot, Master Graves. He ain’t no horse. I don’t know what fer...”

“What for?” the older man’s voice shot back at the man. “I’ll tell you what for. So we could build up his strength. So he can cut your throat, or at least cut off your ears, while you sleep. Little use they are to a fool who doesn’t listen or do as he’s told.”

Malcolm listened to the uncomfortable shifting of straw in the back corner of his cell. Though he wouldn’t open his eyes, he could envision the withering look that the stable hand was now enduring.

“Are ye done with me now?” the man grumbled at last under his breath. “If ye are, I’ll be on my way.”

Malcolm moaned as the physician prodded hard at one of the gashes. He felt the man’s hands gentle at once. “Nay, you’ll have to stay and give Davie here and the carter a hand moving the Scot.”

“Taking him back to Norwich?” Malcolm didn’t miss the note of satisfaction in the young man’s voice.

“Nay, to my surgery in the manor house.”

“To the house, Master Grave?” the hostler asked, dumbfounded. “A Scot under His Grace’s own roof?”

“Aye, man. What of it?” Malcolm kept his eyes closed but relished the sensation of the cool liquid that had been lifted to his cracked lips.

“But...but...” he sputtered. “How can it be that he...? A filthy Scot? Why, I’ve ne’er even been allowed...”

“You?” The physician’s words were pointed. “You’re a servant who has a tongue far too long and head far too big for his own good.”

“But sir,” the man groveled, “I...I ne’er thought...”

“Quit your jabbering, man. Ah, the cart is here.” The physician’s hands withdrew from their examination of Malcolm’s wounds, and the Highlander could hear Graves move toward the door. “Damn. I didn’t want that thing...” The older man’s steps grew fainter as he walked out into the stable yard.

As he went, the physician continued to mutter under his breath, but his words were obliterated by the whispering of the hostler and the man called Davie.

“Lord Surrey’s the one who said fine to Mistress Jaime’s asking,” Davie said quietly, “after His Grace and Lord Edward left last night. It’s because of her that we’re a-taking him back to the house.”

“The Mistress and Lord Surrey? But Mistress Jaime belongs to Lord Edward.” The hostler gave a low chuckle under his breath. “Just yesterday in the garden—I was up helping myself to a few words with Tess, the master gardener’s girl—I seen Lord Edward a-mauling the mistress. Like a baited bear, he was. His hands and mouth was all over her—and I don’t think she was minding it much. I was getting a might randy just a-watching them from afar. Hell, I don’t think she cares a jot for no filthy Scot to be messing with no...”

“Ye are a fool, Jo,” Davie put in. “This ‘filthy Scot,’ as ye call him, is the property of Lord Edward now, thanks to Mistress Jaime. She was the one as pointed him out to the master. “An’ if he dies, I heard old Graves say, Lord Edward stands to lose a pretty sum of gold. So even if he ain’t worth so much as a dog to us, he has value to the masters. So if ye was a bit sharper, Jo, ye’d best...”

The sound of the physician returning to the cell silenced the two men. And Malcolm continued to lie still, wondering if in being taken to the house he would have access to “Mistress” Jaime.

With all his soul, he couldn’t wait for the opportunity of putting his hands around the wench’s throat.